


Silka Spirits (In the Ashes of Stardust)

by Annessarose



Series: Beads of Silka [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Ahsoka Tano-centric, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Star Wars: The Clone Wars Season 7 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:06:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24377707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annessarose/pseuds/Annessarose
Summary: On the moons below the rubble of the Death Stars, truths come to light.The truth of Anakin and Luke, spoken in a quiet room on the moon of Yavin, with a former Jedi padawan, a former clone trooper, and a former Republic astromech droid.The final truth of Anakin’s fate, spoken in the wild forests on the moon of Endor, with the Padawan and the son of the Chosen One, and with the spirits of two brothers torn apart long ago on a planet of fire and brimstone.ON HIATUS.
Relationships: Anakin Skywalker & Ahsoka Tano, CT-7567 | Rex & Ahsoka Tano, Hera Syndulla & Jacen Syndulla, Jacen Syndulla & Sabine Wren, Luke Skywalker & Ahsoka Tano, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Ahsoka Tano, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Anakin Skywalker & Ahsoka Tano, R2-D2 & Ahsoka Tano, R2-D2 & Luke Skywalker
Series: Beads of Silka [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1752805
Comments: 10
Kudos: 108





	Silka Spirits (In the Ashes of Stardust)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a companion piece to Broken Beads, both written in the perspective of Ahsoka Tano.

You arrive at Yavin IV to find an artificial asteroid field waiting for your arrival. 

The news of the destruction of the Death Star had come while you and Sabine were only three minutes away from home base, too late to turn back, the blue streaks of hyperspace streaking around the cockpit window. “Scans show that the debris has spread far just outside the atmosphere of the moon,” Mon’s encrypted transmission had said. “Entry to home base will be dangerous. Do not return and meet at rendezvous unless you are unable to turn back.”

“I thought you said it was safe to return to home base!” Sabine had jabbed at you good-naturedly. Neither of you had cared, really - you had swapped seats, with you at the pilot’s chair, both you and Sabine assured in your skill in the Force to safely navigate home. The elation following the news of the destruction of the Death Star had been infectious, bringing wide smiles to your faces. Sabine had jumped off her seat and whooped loudly, and you couldn’t help the smile of vindication that had spread across your face. 

In the present, the moment the ship is out of hyperspace, your hands are already moving on the controls, your entire being sinking into the force to avoid the remains of the Death Star. Any elation you had felt is immediately wiped away by the screams you hear amongst the remains of the Death Star. Two million lives, you count, a quiet sorrow in your heart. Two million lights disappeared. As your hands move on the controls, guided by the Force as Sabine carefully blasted any debris that came too close with the guns, your feelings are at war within yourself. 

On the planet of Shili, Togruta are, at their base, the predators on the planet. The primal huntress that lives in you snarls with glee, a raw satisfaction coursing through your veins, making your montrals hum at the extermination of this threat. As far as you are aware, scum such as Grand Moff Tarkin were on the station, and even the most compassionate part of your heart cannot find any regret in his death. No, that is a lie. The only regret you have is that his death was so quick. 

Countless lives had been saved at the destruction of the Death Star. 

But part of you feels for the ones who didn’t have a choice. Janitors, food service staff, low-level grunts who were likely assigned and forced into secrecy. You feel for the children whose parent - or parents - were on the Death Star. Imperial lives though they were, that didn’t change the fact that two million deaths had just occurred. 

Force, you are so tired. 

You hadn’t gone for a year without seeing death since you were fourteen. 

You come back to the present as the ship clears the wreckage of the Death Star, entering the atmosphere of Yavin IV, with Sabine already speaking to the comm. “This is Spectre 5 to home requesting permission to land.”

The speaker crackles briefly, a burst of static, and a voice which sounds incredibly cheerful for someone who is in charge of security comes through. “Acknowledged! Send us your codes.” Moments after Sabine patches through her confirmation codes, the voice speaks again. “Welcome home, Spectre 5! Land at Hangar Bay Four. You’re invited to the gathering in the mess hall at 2200.”

“We’ll be there,” Sabine says, a sharp smile on her face, and cuts the comm, relaxing against her chair with a sigh. A quick check of the clock shows that you both still have twenty minutes before the gathering starts, allowing a little bit of breathing time before you will both be overwhelmed by what is sure to be a raucous party. “It’s been a while.” 

The mission on Felucia had been long - nearly half a year, with only minimal contact with Rebel Intelligence to keep you updated. “It has,” you agree, your voice weary. “We won’t have time to rest after tonight.”

“Worth it,” Sabine mutters, and together, you fly down in a contemplative silence towards the hangar bay. The foliage of the moon of Yavin is thick - dark, purple, and hard to navigate - and so, perfect to house a rebel base. But not for long. 

Even from this hangar, far from the main mess hall of the Rebel Base, the enthusiasm is already infectious - bright and joyful and with such Light in the Force that you find yourself unable to contain your smile. Sabine, too, grins widely, but not for the exact same reason as you. As you approach, you spot three figures waiting on their arrival, growing bigger by the second, one a human, the other a green-skinned Twi'lek, standing beside a diminutive droid with a conical orange head. The closer you get, the clearer their faces become, and you can vaguely make out the features of Rex, Hera, and Chopper as they wave towards your cockpit. “They must have been notified of our arrival,” you say. Your eyes narrow, looking at Hera’s figure, which seems strangely disfigured and lumpy from an odd package she seems to be holding close to her chest. “I wonder what she has there?”

“Guess we’ll see when you land this piece of junk,” Sabine says cheekily. The moment the ship touches down, she’s out of her seat, rushing towards the gangplank. You allow yourself a second, drawing in a fond and exasperated breath at her antics, and run out of the ship after her, only to nearly collide with her as she suddenly freezes on the gangplank. 

“Sabine?” Your eyes stray to Rex, whose face is also bright with a happy smile. “What’s-”

Your eyes fall on Hera next, along with the misshapen package in her arms. Only now, you realize, it isn’t a package at all. Tucked comfortably against her chest in a sling, Hera’s infant child stares at you both with wide eyes and a thumb in his mouth. While he definitely has inherited part of his mother’s genetics, if his green tuft of hair is anything to go by, the bright blue of his eyes leaves no question as to who the father is. 

( _Was._ )

A strangled noise that sounds vaguely like a name and a question erupts from Sabine’s throat as she stares at the infant, still rooted to the spot. At the noise, Hera’s eyes suddenly brim with tears even as she smiles and nods. “Oh, god _,_ ” Sabine manages to choke out, and suddenly she’s rushing towards Hera, carefully enveloping her and her child in an embrace. “ _Ik’aad,_ ” she gasps, staring at Hera with joy in her eyes. “ _Kanan’ika_.” _Child. Little child of Kanan._

As you allow the two Spectres to share a moment of family between them, you walk up to Rex, who is watching the scene with fondness in his eyes. “The droid has barely left her side since,” he says by way of greeting. 

You laugh, glancing at Chopper, who is loyally watching the infant, ready to move any time Hera needs help. “I can imagine,” you reply. “How long has it been?”

“Four months. She wanted to tell you both in person.” While you can tell through his voice that Rex is already elated from the victory over the Death Star, there’s a different sort of joy lying underneath, subtle and soft, as he talks of the child. “Kid has his father’s eyes.” 

“He does,” you agree, feeling a small ache in your chest. You had never seen Kanan again after Malachor, and even with the knowledge of his death, you had been unable to return to prevent it. Part of you mourns that the child will never know his father, just as part of you celebrates for Hera, for Sabine, for the rest of the Spectres, because they had just gained a member and because they will forever have a part of Kanan with them. 

It never crosses your mind to be bothered that Kanan, a Jedi, had formed an attachment, and gone against the Code. It has been nearly twenty years since you were beholden to the Order, and though you may follow the Old Code from thousands of years past, you haven’t thought of the Order’s rules since the Clone Wars ended. 

After a hug that seems to have lasted for well over an eternity, you see Sabine let go of Hera, staring down on the child. “His name is Jacen,” Hera whispers, her voice unable to go louder lest she loses her hold on her emotions and upsets the child. “Jacen Syndulla.” 

With an infinite tenderness that should not seem natural with her blaster-scorched armor, Sabine gently pats Jacen’s head, another choked noise coming from her throat as he coos at her and stares with Kanan’s eyes. “I’m so happy for you,” she manages, carefully drying her eyes. At the sight of Hera, whose tears are running freely and silently on her cheeks, Sabine rubs her eyes again. “Oh, Hera.” 

“I know, kid,” Hera whispers, acknowledging the unsaid thought that hangs in the air even after a year. “I know.”

_I wish Kanan was here, too._

The moment is interrupted when Chopper interrupts, a timid _Hey the chrono says that it’s six minutes to 2200 hours and you’re going to have to start walking to make it to the mess hall in time_ coming from his vocaliser. Hera and Sabine chuckle, staring at the little droid with affection. “Alright, Chop,” Sabine laughs, “lead the way.” She gestures, and together, you all turn towards the direction of the mess hall and slowly make your way there. 

As you walk, you take in your surroundings, thinking of how within days, all of this would be gone, left without a trace, left without anything for the Empire to salvage. The hangar you landed in is small, only large enough to house one more ship than the nine that are already parked. Though it is built of durasteel and concrete, the walls of the hangar are already beginning to blend with the native foliage of Yavin IV, the purple-blue plants creeping around the walls as it tries to reclaim the land the Rebel Alliance had carefully cleared out to form their base. Native insects, small and irrelevant, dart through the air and around the doors to the corridor, studiously ignoring your group as they search for food in the flora on the walls. 

In front of you, Hera and Sabine talk to each other in low tones, alternating between talk of the Rebellion and cooing at Jacen, with Chopper following faithfully at Hera’s side. “What was it like, on the base?” You ask Rex quietly. “During the battle.” You can sense that he didn’t take part in the aerial battle - not on a ship, anyway. 

“Tense,” he says, his eyebrows furrowed. “I’ve fought in thousands of battles, at this point, but-” Rex huffs, then shrugs. “This was different. We’ve never had the stakes this high.” He takes a deep breath, as if gathering his wits to do something, and you sense his apprehension rising before he seems to stop himself from asking whatever was on his mind. 

You don’t let it lie, though. You’ve known Rex long enough to know that if he kept something down, it would sometimes come out at the most inopportune moment, in the heat of battle when he was stressed out of his karking mind and only conscious because of the stims he had taken to keep himself awake for 72 hours. “I sense... uneasiness from you.” You cut him off before he can evade the question with a snarky response. “You were going to ask me something.” 

He sighs, his hand twitching - a nervous tic he had had throughout the Clone Wars and had never gotten rid of since. His mouth opens, then closes, anxiety quietly seeping into the Force around him. His mouth opens again. “Commander,” he starts, and part of you wonders just _exactly_ how stressed he is at asking this question, because he only calls you Commander now when he’s either incredibly relaxed or incredibly under pressure. “There were rumors, that- that Vader was on the Death Star. When it blew.” 

Ah. 

He was asking about Ana- about Vader. 

In front of you, you’re aware that Hera and Sabine have gone silent, likely wanting to hear the answer for themselves. Yet, you can sense that they all know the answer. Especially Rex. He knows you would have told him had you sensed Vader’s death. 

They still hope, though. 

Rex stares at you, then glances away, and you realize you haven’t given your answer yet. “No,” you say, and it comes out a little too calmly. “He’s still alive.” 

You wish he wasn’t. Ha. You, and everyone on this base. 

“I figured as much,” Rex mutters bitterly, and you all lapse into a semi-awkward silence that lasts for nearly a minute before Chopper speaks up. 

_You’re all too serious. That’s too bad,_ he chirps, then lets loose a string of very creative expletives directed towards Vader that has most of you bending over in laughter at the sheer absurdity of the image he conjures along with Hera nearly shrieking “ _Not around Jacen, Chopper_!” By the time you arrive at the mess hall, Chopper’s words have done their job, and you all arrive in high spirits in time for the boisterous party that has just begun. 

The mess hall is noisy, people young and old shouting and celebrating, pumping their fists in the air or talking loudly at their tables. On the side, a makeshift raised dais has been made for an impromptu band, a few large barrels serving as drums for a Bothan while a human singer and a Twi’lek flautist chug out a happy tune. 

Hera finds her way into a quieter corner, chatting with others as she carefully tends to Jacen, who seems miraculously unbothered by the amount of noise bombaring his surroundings. “I’ll probably retire early,” she tells you cheerfully, then disappears as she is swallowed up by a number of other colleagues cooing over Jacen. 

You eventually find your way to Mon Mothma, sitting quietly at a table with Admiral Ackbar and a number of Alliance leaders, sharing an alcoholic drink amongst them. Although she smiles when she sees you, the tightness in her eyes and the quiet sorrow she carries around her in the Force betray her bone-deep weariness. 

It doesn’t escape your notice that one of the seats next to her - where Bail would have sat - is empty, and will forever remain that way. 

“Agent Tano,” she calls over the noise in greeting. 

You dip your head. “Lady Mothma.” 

“I trust your mission was a success?” she asks. Even at a party such as this, she maintains a professional demeanor with a steady mask, and you can’t help but wonder if this is how she manages to hold herself together after decades of fighting and putting herself as the public face of the Rebellion. 

“It was.” You glance around, taking in what the Force shows you. The lights of everyone in the mess hall are bright and exuberant, blending together with such an energetic fervor it makes it easy to lose individuals and to only see one large, shining pulse of joy in the Force. Part of you wonders if one spot in the crowd seems particularly bright in the Force. “I can see that the mission over the base was a success as well.” 

“Was it?” Mon wonders, and you turn to her in understanding. 

“How many?” You ask. 

Her head bows. “Eleven pilots,” she says, almost inaudible over the noise. Eleven more lives lost today. Unspoken is the terrible acknowledgement that those eleven only add to a death toll that counts the billions on Alderaan gone.

Your heart aches again, thinking of the one other death you had felt in the Force. 

_Obi-Wan._

Mon’s voice cuts into your thoughts, giving you a much-needed shake to bring you back to your senses. “Well, now is not the time for mourning,” she declares, taking such a long swig from the glass of champagne in her hand that she leaves you wondering how she hasn’t inebriated herself yet. She isn’t even looking the slightest bit pink. “The Empire is vulnerable. We’ve just shown the galaxy that.” Her voice becomes vindictive. “I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know that Grand Moff Tarkin, along with many high-ranking bastards (pardon my language), were confirmed to be aboard the battle station when it was destroyed.” 

_Kriff_ Jedi training. Kriff those who say you cannot take pleasure in revenge. A vicious glee rises up within you at the confirmation of the news. “Good,” you snarl, and Mon raises her glass in satisfaction, allowing you both a moment to bask in vengeance enacted. 

She gestures to a chair and you accept, taking a seat at the table and watching as some of the younger rebels take to the dance floor and perform moves that make you wonder if they are either secretly Force-Sensitive or just insanely reckless. Across the table, you see the former senator Meena Tils smiling at the antics of her fellow Mon Calamari colleagues, laughing as she watches some of the younger ones attempt to stack themselves in a pyramid before collapsing into a heap, surrounded by the cheers of other rebels.

From behind you, Rex emerges from the crowd, a glass in his hand. “There you are,” he shouts, struggling to be heard over the noise. He snaps a quick salute with his hand holding the glass when he sees Mon, managing somehow to make the gesture look respectful yet miraculous when he nearly smashes the glass against his head without spilling a drop. “Senator!” 

It’s difficult for you not to bend over the table, wheezing at the hilarity of this gesture. Hidden behind the mask of professionality as she is, you can see Mon’s eyes sparkling with laughter as she greets him back. You have only seen Rex drunk a few times before - once aboard the _Negotiator_ , where he shared a large bottle with Cody and their generals, all of them teasing you by constantly keeping the bottle out of your reach. _You’re too young, kid,_ Rex had slurred, and in indignation, you had shouted, _Hey, I’m older than you!_ leaving Anakin, Obi-Wan, and the clones howling on the floor in their alcohol-induced hysteria. Artoo had had the last laugh, though - afterwards, whenever he had the occasion, he never hesitated to replay the scene, much to the embarrassment of everyone present. 

“I see you’ve indulged yourself,” you say, gesturing towards his glass. 

“Of course,” he laughs. “We don’t get much of a chance to do this.” 

Behind him, you see someone emerge from the crowd, speaking to Mon. Wedge Antilles - you think. You’ve only heard of him once. She nods and he beams at her, then rushes off in the direction of the dais. Given the size of the crowd, you suspect that it will take him a while to work his way to the stage. 

Mon’s head turns towards you and Rex. Her eyes narrow slightly, and you sense something coming from her in the Force. Suspicion? Beside you, Rex is unaware of her sudden change in demeanour. It’s subtle enough that had you not been Force-Sensitive, you would not have noticed it. Even then, her mental hold over her emotions are impressive - her suspicion is well-suppressed. 

“I apologize for bringing this up, Captain, Padawan,” she says, gesturing with her glass, and while Rex turns to her with only curiosity, it does not miss your notice that she is using your titles from nearly twenty years ago, “but Agent Tano, did you sense any changes in the Force at the destruction of the Death Star?”

She’s not subtle, but you can tell she’s not trying to be. Mon has a different agenda here - something you’re uncertain of - but you try to answer her nonetheless. Nothing she does is without purpose for the rebellion, not even at a party. You steel yourself. “No,” you say, and at your side, you can sense Rex sobering a little at the indirect question asking about Anakin. “I sensed the death of many Imperials, but…” Her gaze sharpens a little, watching your carefully. “I can sense that Vader survived the blast.” 

She watches you carefully, then turns her gaze towards Rex, who seems mildly uncomfortable under her scrutiny. She seems to get what she is looking for, though, because her eyes widen, then flicker towards the dais - so quickly that had you not been watching her carefully, you would have missed it - and suddenly they harden as she looks towards you both. 

“Do _not_ tell him yet,” she hisses with a sudden intensity, pinning you both with a glare. 

“Him?” Rex nearly yelps, flinching back under her gaze. You hold Mon’s stare, confused as you are. “Who-”

“He does not know what happened to his father.” She continues as though Rex has not spoken, her eyes pleading with you both to _please, understand_. “It would break him!” 

You’re cut off from questioning her when Wedge’s voice rings out over the crowd, screaming into a mic that wails from feedback before the band quickly dials the volume down to a manageable level. “People of the rebellion!” He shouts, dragging someone behind him that’s half-hidden at his back. You suspect that whoever he is pulling mercilessly is the pilot who has destroyed the Death Star. Deafening cheers follow Wedge as people register his and his friend’s pilot uniforms, taking them to be the heroes of the day. “I bring you all the hero that fired the one-in-a-million shot and brought the Empire to its knees!”

The boy behind him stands, showing his face to the crowd, and your emotions punch you in the gut with such a force it leaves you breathless. He looks around the room with an all-too-familiar sun-bleached blonde hair and cleft chin, and when his eyes sweep the room, the bright blue of his irises causes a lump in your throat to choke your voice. 

_Anakin._

_Oh, Force._

Behind you, Rex’s glass tumbles from his hand and shatters on the ground, alcohol spilling over his boots, but no-one notices or even glances his way. The cheers around you are ear-splitting, yet it all seems distant, screaming at you through a tunnel, as the very alive ghost of Anakin Skywalker smiles at the rebellion from the stage and waves at the oblivious crowd. 

Sith hells, you’d forgotten so much. You’d forgotten the exact shade of blue of his eyes and the shape of the smile he’d give you when the two of you left Obi-Wan’s rooms after a long game of Dejarik with Cody and Rex. 

“-ring you all, Luke Skywalker!!” Wedge’s voice hollers over the thunderous screams of the crowd, the name of the pilot cutting into your thoughts. 

_Wait, Luke?_

Distracted as you are, your emotions a tumult of _confusionhappinesspainsorrowdespair_ , you can sense Mon’s sympathetic gaze looking at you and Rex. With great difficulty, you force yourself to unfreeze from your spot and to really _look_ at the ghost of your old master, and you realize that while Luke _does_ look like Anakin, he isn’t his carbon copy. Luke’s face is softer, rounder, his lips a little fuller, and his height was definitely not inherited from his father. 

_Kriff you, Anakin Skywalker._

_You had a karking CHILD._

Under the noise, you can barely hear the choked noise Rex manages, but you make it out all the same. “ _Senator,_ ” he manages, but you both understand he isn’t addressing Mon this time. She understands too, her eyes softening. 

“Yes,” she murmurs, too softly to be heard without you focusing in on her voice with the Force. “Padmé.”

You stare at the child of Anakin and Padmé, him beaming at the crowd and whooping, and you sense his bright Force presence. He’s strong, shining and untrained in the Force, his emotions exuberant and filled with the high of adrenaline and excitement. 

It hurts to see this. To know what Anakin will never have, and what he could have had. 

Something crunches under your hand, and you realize that in your lapse of control, your glass of alcohol has cracked, white lines cutting through the cup and creating a wide lattice that spiderwebs through the glass. Carefully, you set it down, then turn to Mon. “I will retire for the night, Lady Mothma,” you say abruptly. She dips her head in understanding, expectation waiting in her eyes. You answer it. “I will not tell him yet. But he deserves to know, if only to know who he faces.” 

She sighs, but doesn’t voice a disagreement. You stand, waving your hand at the mess at Rex’s feet, carefully gathering the spilled liquid and the shards of glass and placing it in your cracked glass. “Come on, Rex.” 

Wordlessly, he follows you. Part of your emotions and your desire not to be noticed must be leaking into the Force because the crowd parts easily for you then falls back into their original spot, completely unaware that they had just moved for someone to get through. By the time you reach the door and move into the empty corridor, Rex has finally gained his voice back. “You’re losing a bit of control, Commander.” 

You huff. “I know.” 

“If I wasn’t holding on to you, I wouldn’t even have known you were standing in front of me. You’re shielding yourself very strongly.” His rebuke is gentle, but it you feel chastised nonetheless for using the Force in an inappropriate way. “You can crash in my quarters tonight. I’ll go find you an extra cot.” 

Unable to find the words to express your gratitude, you settle for sending a wave of gratitude at him as strongly as you can. Though he isn’t Force-sensitive, the time you had connected with him to remove the inhibitor chip during Order 66 had forged a thin bond, allowing him to get a better sense of your emotions than most people. Inebriated as he is, he gives you a half-hearted smile in return, then heads off to the quartermaster to find a makeshift cot. 

He knows you well enough to know that you’re going to need some time alone to process this. He also knows you well enough to know that you’ll be able to find him, searching through the bond you share together. 

You also know him well enough to know that he wants his time alone, too.

Eventually, you find your way to the mechanic’s workshop at the base. It’s a habit that you had picked up from Anakin during the war - while Obi-Wan had preferred the standard Jedi meditation, Anakin’s version of meditation often involved tools in his hands and a droid or ship to work on, allowing himself to get lost in the process of fixing something that could be fixed. To your dismay, the first thing that greets you is a blaster-scorched astromech droid, too damaged to be activated, yet familiar enough that you recognize him the moment your eyes fall on him. 

Already emotional from the night, a strangled “Artoo!” bursts from your lips before you realize you’re not alone in the workshop. Looking a little haggard, a tholothian mechanic you don’t recognize steps into view from behind a shelf. You can’t bring yourself to apologize for your outburst, but the mechanic doesn’t seem to mind, a sympathetic smile on her lips. 

“Your astromech, miss?” she asks. Crouching beside Artoo, she carefully removes a damaged plate, setting it aside for disposal. “S’alright, we’ve all been there. Nothing I can’t fix.” For a moment, you’re reminded of Trace, but the image of the downworlder mechanic disappears from your mind just as quickly as it came. The mechanic in front of you isn’t her.

“Well, mine, and several others,” you say. You think back to the Clone Wars, remembering how distressed Anakin had been when he had found Artoo in pieces, having sacrificed himself to blow up a Separatist ship, and you recall that the little droid had been put back together later with no problem. “Do you mind if I work with you?”

The mechanic scoffs. “It’s your droid, agent.” She points to the rack. “Pass me that hydrospanner, would you?”

You work carefully on Artoo in the silence, rewiring parts of his mainframe and replacing damaged casings. To your relief, his memory storage is still entirely intact, meaning that once the repairs were finished, he would be as good as new. Part of you wants to ask the mechanic why she isn’t at the party, but you refrain - it’s none of your business. 

Besides, you have a good guess. While she’s sober enough to do quality work in the workshop, an opened bottle of booze sits on the table, where she takes a swig every so often. In the times she does turn around, you catch the glimpse of the insignia of the Royal House of Alderaan, indicating that she works - well, used to work - for Bail. 

By the time you’re done working on Artoo, it’s nearly 0100 hours in the morning, and your eyes are beginning to droop. The mechanic carefully finishes oiling Artoo’s joints, then powers him on. “You all good there, buddy?”

He looks at her, swivels his head, then blats a series of profanities directed toward the imperials that has both of you collapsing and wheezing on the ground in laughter. What was it with droids and foul language?

“I couldn’t agree more,” the mechanic says breathlessly. 

As you make to leave, you turn to her at the door. “Thank you for helping.” 

She waves you off. “Anytime, agent.” Her eyes fall on your lightsabers, narrowing slightly in consideration, before she looks back at you with a drunken smile. “Hope the Force gives you luck.”

Even though she butchers the phrase completely, you can’t help the warm feeling that surges through you, finding companionship in the survivors of two cultures that have been nearly eliminated by the cruelty of the Empire. “ _Alde’ra’axi,_ ” you respond in the ancient dialect of Alderaan. _May the spirits of the hearth bring you safety._ You're sure your pronunciation of the Alderaanian farewell phrase is awful, but the mechanic's face softens, and she gives you a salute before you head off with Artoo. 

At this time, you can sense that the party has started to wind down. You walk silently beside Artoo, navigating your way around the drunk people in the halls, half-relying on your bond with Rex to find your way to his quarters. Thankfully, by the time you arrive at the right corridor in the living quarters, it is empty, giving you time to speak to Artoo. 

“I was at the celebration. With Rex,” you tell him quietly. Artoo’s dome swivels, his photoreceptor looking at you. Your throat feels dry. “They announced the name of the pilot who fired the shot. I saw him.” 

Artoo makes a sympathetic whine, watching you for a few moments. _Did they mention me?_ He beeps cheekily. _I flew with him. They’re the exact same type of stupid when they fly._

The thought of Artoo flying with Anakin’s son puts another lump in your throat. Carefully, you release your sorrow into the Force, soothing the edge of the despair that makes your chest tight with emotion. “I’m glad you were with him,” you tell him, your voice thick. 

Artoo whistles softly, bumping into your leg affectionately as you stop in front of Rex’s door. You knock, sensing that he’s still awake, and you’re met with a faint “Come in” that you’re not sure if you heard from the door or through the Force. The door hisses open, making way to a small room with a small bunk set in the wall and a removable cot set alongside another wall. Tucked in an alcove in the third wall are a simple table and chair where Rex gets up from. Artoo rolls in without hesitation, stopping only at Rex’s side to give him the same news he gave you. _Your general’s kid would give you the same headache if you saw him fly. I would know, I was karking there._

Rex, too tired to react strongly, musters up a weary smile and pats the domed head. “Runs in the family, eh?” he huffs. 

A cheeky beep. _If you had any hair left, and you’d seen him up there, they’d go from grey to white._

Spluttering in indignation, a startled “Hey!” bursts from Rex’s mouth, drawing a wide smile on your face. Throughout the war, Artoo had always known how to distract you all from your worries. Two decades later, he hasn’t changed. 

Another thing that hasn’t changed is Rex’s ability to sober up, his mind getting drawn back to darker thoughts despite Artoo’s efforts. You sense it - his smile fades and he looks at you, colouring the Force with a loss that cuts deeply. “He has the same smile,” he says, and you can tell that his thoughts aren’t in the present. “The same damned smirk.” 

“He does.” Your voice feels hollow, broken by mourning and shame. “And the same eyes.” 

“Yeah.” Rex sits on his bunk, the weight of the experience of decades of war sitting on his shoulders and hunching him over. “I’d forgotten. Hell, I don’t remember his voice, either.” 

You sit in silence for a few moments, thinking back, and you realize that you, too, have forgotten the sound of Anakin’s voice.

All you can hear now when you think of it is Vader’s mechanical vocoder, cold and threatening. 

_Then you will die._

Artoo pipes up hesitantly in the heavy silence, responding to Rex. _Do you want to hear a recording?_ He whirs. Part of you wonders how he’s able to make a series of beeps and whines sound glum. _I still have recordings of Master Anakin speaking._

“No,” you say. Since Malachor, you have barely been able to bring yourself to think about Anakin without nearly losing your composure. You crouch down to Artoo’s level, looking at the little droid. “Have you told Luke anything about Anakin?”

Artoo shivers, wobbling in place, before going still again. _No,_ he admits. _I don’t think he should hear the truth from me. But I also don’t want to show him the good holos I have. It would make it worse._

Rex blows out a long breath, confusion and doubt leaking into the Force around him. “When did he get here? I’ve been on the base on and off for the past year, but this is the first time I-” He stumbles over his words, and you can hear his throat catch at the implications of what should have been. “This is the first time I’ve ever heard of him.” 

_We arrived yesterday,_ Artoo beeps. 

“And he destroyed the Death Star on his first day with the rebellion,” you huff. 

“Of course.” Rex laughs, rubbing the back of his head. “It’s got to be genetic.” 

_The gene of the absolutely insane,_ Artoo says, and you all share a quiet laugh, thinking back to Anakin’s reckless plans and Padmé’s equally reckless ideas. No wonder their child turned out so - a hero, an ace pilot, strong in the Force, and _absolutely batshit reckless._

The laughter doesn’t last long with the thick shadow of Anakin's fate hanging over the room. 

“He deserves to know,” you say quietly. 

“He does.” You meet Rex’s eyes, seeing the same deep sorrow you had seen on the day of Order 66 after he had opened fire on his own brothers from his bed in the medbay. “But who should he hear it from?” 

Rex sighs again and you lapse into silence again. Part of you wants to sink into the Force, to reach out to Luke, to-

 _Master Obi-Wan didn’t tell Master Luke the truth_ , Artoo mumbles, and it takes your mind a full five seconds to start processing the words before you realize what Artoo has just said.

That Artoo saw Obi-Wan recently - and probably watched him die. 

That Artoo might know who killed Obi-Wan. 

That Obi-Wan had been with Luke.

That Obi-Wan had- had _lied_ to Luke about the truth?

Rex takes about as long to process the information as you do although his thoughts are in a different direction. He sputters, “Wait, General Kenobi is _alive?_ ” At the exact same time you snap,“What do you mean, not the truth?”

Right. You hadn’t told Rex about what you had sensed - that Obi-Wan was alive, all these years, and that just as you sensed that he was alive, he had died. 

The hole in your chest that had numbed over time flares again, clawing at you and making your lekku twitch. 

Artoo twitches nervously, shaking on the spot, and you wonder how he’s able to keep his emotions inside himself. You’ve heard other beings argue that droids couldn’t feel emotions, that they couldn’t possibly be classified as sentient, and while you may have agreed with them when you were thirteen, your opinion had changed entirely after meeting Artoo. While other beings might put their trust in droids because they are programmed to obey, you trust Artoo because he’s… well… Artoo. 

_No, Captain. Master Obi-Wan is dead,_ Artoo says glumly. 

“But you just said-” Rex’s words stop abruptly, a series of emotions flashing by on his face too quickly for you to read, before settling on a sorrowful understanding. 

Artoo’s tone is scornful. _He died on the Death Star so that Master Luke and Mistress Leia could get away._

Of course. Of course that was how he died. Obi-Wan had always been a self-sacrificing bastard. You can understand Artoo’s anger at Obi-Wan, because how many times had you watched Anakin shout at Obi-Wan in the medbay after a mission? How many times had you scowled at him because he had refused medical help despite being so obviously injured? 

The anger burns, sharp and bright, and it disappears as quickly as it came, leaving again the hungry numbness of before. 

Enough. You release your emotions into the Force, focusing on the issue you had brought up as a distraction. It works - partially. “Artoo, what did Obi-Wan tell Luke?” 

_He told Luke that Darth Vader betrayed and murdered his father,_ Artoo says, and you suck in a breath. 

“That’s absolute banthashavit,” you snarl. Artoo is silent as you shoot up from your seat and start pacing, seething over the stupidity of it and your anger at Obi-Wan for doing such a _Jedi_ thing and at the fact that you completely _understand_ why he had told Luke such a lie. 

You hadn’t reacted to the news of Anakin’s fate well at all. Had you been younger, untrained, and much stronger in the Force, the news would have carried you to despair and pushed you to Fall. If Obi-Wan had told Luke straightaway…

Your feelings in turmoil, you think over the situation. You want to reach out to Luke - to talk to him, to train him, to watch over him because he’s young and naive and impulsive and because it’s the least you can do for two old friends who had both been lost too early. You want to tell him the truth, because he deserves to know, but you also dread it because he doesn’t _deserve_ to have such a horrible truth placed upon his shoulders.

You’re so absorbed in your thoughts you don’t realize that Rex hasn’t said anything at all until he _does_ say something. 

“You watched him die, didn’t you.”

Rex doesn’t phrase it as a question. Artoo’s entire body pitches forward, a mournful wail quietly coming from him, and you feel a pang of sympathy that’s dulled by the numbness in your chest. 

Rex’s eyes are far away, staring at something you can’t pinpoint, before they suddenly lock onto Artoo with a startling intensity. “Artoo,” he says, and you get a strange twinge of foreboding, “Do you know who killed General Kenobi?”

It’s a strange question, you think. You can almost imagine it in your mind’s eye - Obi-Wan, still standing tall and strong, his ginger hair faded and his lightsaber still shining blue, whirling in graceful arcs as he defended Luke from the hordes and hordes of stormtroopers that had likely surged after them in unrelenting waves. There’s no way Artoo could have identified the trooper that had made the shot. Obi-Wan had probably fallen like so many other Jedi, but nineteen years later, to clones who had been brainwashed into serving the empire. You’re pretty sure it definitely wasn’t anybody of high rank - after all, the officers were too cowardly, too spineless, and the Emperor was on Coruscant, and-

Oh. 

_Oh, sweet Force._

Artoo’s silence is deafening.

“Artoo,” Rex says again, and his voice trembles. “ _Who killed General Kenobi?_ ” 

Silence. 

You think, distantly, to the times on the _Negotiator_ where you had all stayed in each other’s quarters and played Dejarik with the clones. Anakin had had an arm slung around Obi-Wan’s shoulders, both of them somewhat intoxicated, and they had been broadcasting their affection for you and one another loudly in the Force. _Brother, sister, brother,_ the Force and murmured, soothing and gentle. _Family._

You think back to the time where Obi-Wan had faked his death, how anguished Anakin had been following the funeral, how he hadn’t spoken, and how when you had sensed him releasing his agony over what he thought was Obi-Wan’s death in the training salle, you had walked in too early and seen thirty training droids crushed into thirty small cubes from the force of Anakin’s emotions. 

You think to the time on Zygerria, where you were sure Anakin had just relived one of his worst nightmares - a return to slavery - and how the only thing on his mind during your escape was to find Obi-Wan.

You think of the time on Mandalore when Obi-Wan had called to you, when he had asked you to talk to Anakin, when you could sense his concern and his attachment even though he was a Jedi Master. 

You think of the times you’d seen them together, more often than not, sharing secret smiles and gestures that only the other had understood. You think of the time on the battlefield when you had been woozy with pain, shrapnel in your abdomen, and they had fought through an entire battalion of droids with only Cody and Rex as their backup. You had watched them twirling around one another, one striking while the other defended, then switching, then again, moving not like two Jedi nor two brothers, but as two complementary halves of a single warrior. 

You think of the time you watched Anakin shouting at Obi-Wan in the medbay, his terror at losing Obi-Wan clear in the Force. You think of the time, not one month after, where Anakin had pulled a reckless maneuver and nearly gotten shot down taking a hit for Obi-Wan, and how he had gotten a strict lecture from Obi-Wan which ended with the two of them shouting over each other about taking unnecessary risks because _Force damnit you need to stop being so reckless or you’ll die!_

Artoo makes a broken sound, then wails loudly, misery clear in his tone. _I think you both know,_ he says, an you feel Rex’s emotions peak through the Force and through your bond, a chaotic tumult of agony, of betrayal, of a loss so strong it cuts straight through your mental defenses because you’re feeling the exact same thing and his emotions only amplify yours tenfold. 

The table in Rex’s room cracks, then crumples, the metal folding in on itself in a loud crunch. 

The noise cuts through your thoughts, snapping you back to reality and forcing you to reign in your emotions and to release them into the Force. Sith hells, it _hurts_ , and the numbness clawing at your chest feels like it’s been replaced with a sharp knife, carving deeply into your heart and wrenching it out, but you can’t afford to lose control. Had your emotions been left unchecked for longer, had you let them free in a more unrestrained manner-

The table was made of metal, but so is Artoo. Untamed, your pain is dangerous. 

A loud knock on the door startles you all, your hands flying to your lightsabers and Rex’s to his pistols, before a worried voice you don’t recognize calls out from behind the door. “Everything alright in there, Captain?” 

You relax, feeling your cheeks burn with the embarrassment of having caused a small scene. Rex, too, releases his grip on his blasters. “Sorry about that, we just, uh, had a droid malfunction,” he replies. As if to reinforce the cover story, Artoo curses loudly, his binary expletives answered by a hearty laugh on the other side of the door. 

“No problem at all.” Footsteps lead away from the door and fade as the rebel walks away. 

In the silence, you turn to Rex, clenching and unclenching your hands. “I knew- I knew Vader had no problem killing _me_ ,” you say, and it still stings, the same agony you felt on Malachor three years ago when you had realized the truth. “But the thought of him killing Obi-Wan...”

“I know,” Rex says quietly. 

“I won’t tell Luke,” you vow. “Not yet. But if I can train him, then one day…” 

One day, you’ll tell him, and damn whatever Mon Mothma thinks of your decision. Luke has a right to know. 

Rex nods stiffly. “He’ll be strong enough.”

Silently, you vow to yourself to find Luke as soon as you can, and to speak to him about his father as soon as possible.

Your chance doesn’t come until three years later. 


End file.
